Collection
by jsfan4ever
Summary: A series of JS moments.
1. Interstate 10

A series of JS moments I'm not quite sure what to do with. In truth they're closer to being drabbles than one-shots, so I'll post them here separately. They're unbetaed and undated, some post-ep and some AU, but... enjoy anyway : )

**# 1 - Interstate 10  
**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & Setting: oh, erm… somewhere in the middle of the desert. Pre-affair.

Interstate 10, engine rumbling monotonously, and if ever solitude had a smell it would be close to this acrid stench of hot asphalt, burning nostrils and the notion of time.

"Need anything?"

The station's rusty, like it belong fifty years in the past and it smells of gas and motor oil and perspiration, but it's either that or drive another seventy miles on an empty tank. This road has a taste of awkwardness, of uncertainty coupled with possibility, stuffy air, furtive glances.

"A map?"

An indignant reply. "We're not lost."

Lost. There's lost and lost, depending on whether you can actually find your way in the middle of nowhere. His sleeves are rolled up at the elbows, skin damp, the top three buttons of his shirt undone and rather than opening one more, she thinks, he might as well take the shirt off.

Not that she'd mind.

They're back on the road and obviously it _was _silly to ask for a map, because you can't take the wrong exit when there are none. Instead it's just dry sand, burning sun and the allegedly _cool _air that comes out of the vents feels hotter than the one outside. So she shifts around− shoes off, shoes on, window closed, half-closed, arm extended in the hope of finding a non-existing breeze. His hands move on the wheel, palms sweaty against the black cushion grip while she takes a sip of water, welcoming the sensation of liquid sliding down her throat.

"Pass me the bottle?" he asks, eyes still on the road, still fixed straight ahead in concentration although he could let cruise-control take them to wherever they're headed, provided of course that this road does lead somewhere.

She watches as he drinks after her, grimacing when he realizes the water stopped being cool somewhere between here and the rest of the civilized world. He takes off his sunglasses for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and when he spares another surreptitious glance in her direction, she can swear there's a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

"What?" she challenges. The air's too hot, clearly the air-conditioning hasn't been tested _here_, but somehow that's not enough to explain why she asks the question.

"Nothing," he says quickly and from behind the sunglasses, she sees his eyes dart back to the road, almost like he's been caught staring at something he shouldn't have, and, she reflects, that might be exactly the case.

She casts around for a subject but he looks lost in thought, and she certainly wouldn't want _her _thoughts wafting in the air between them, adding to the tension and growing uneasiness, so she just forces her mind to relax and looks outside once more. She might've slept, perhaps, if it hadn't been so hot, but even jet lag and a wearing case don't stand a chance here. Sky− sky so blue and pure you could stare at it for hours and with such a sight even the airless interior of the car shouldn't feel so suffocating, except it isn't only the car, it's the driver seated next to her and the clandestine glances he steals at her every now and then.

Hours and minutes stopped being important when they hit the road what feels like an eternity ago, and the sun slowly begins to lower on the horizon. It's still hot, still suffocating, she's still wondering if they're going to arrive someplace, and the road is still as straight as it was when they left the rusty gas station behind, but now blue slowly fades into shards of yellow and cyan and the horizon turns pink, making her wonder how late it is. She could take a peek at the electronic clock on the dashboard, but she refuses to, because somehow this instant is beautiful and precious and she wants to keep it like one keeps a picture or a letter or a keepsake in a box.

"You want me to take over?"

He seems to take this as a sign that it's time for him to remove his sunglasses, and he slides them off, eyes squinting slightly as they adjust to the bright light. Air less damp, shirt less plastered to moist skin, but it's still hotter than it ever was in New York and that's what makes it exciting and unnerving, and far more dangerous than it was before.

After a moment's silence he acquiesces and slows the car down, slower and slower until the wheels stop turning and he shifts into park, carefully making sure the door-handle won't scorch his skin before he opens the door on his side.

Legs stiff, the scent of asphalt hasn't disappeared, mixed with the smell of rubber as the engine cools down momentarily and she's almost surprised not to see smoke coming from the tires. Both windows are lowered, the black paint sparkles in the sunlight and she watches as he gets out, leaning an elbow on top of the door as he looks in the distance. She starts walking around the front of the car, figuring he'll go around the back, except they've both made the mistake of putting too much thought into this and they suddenly find themselves face to face.

"I, er−"

She steps aside, to his left, and takes a tentative step until he unexpectedly grabs her arm, making her turn around and look at him.

Lips dry, she wishes it wasn't so goddamn hot, he's standing way too close or maybe she's the one who forgot there was always supposed to be some distance between them, not that it matters now that he looks at her like that. She's tempted to ask _what _again in that teasing tone except words, elusive as they are, would convey either too much or not enough, carrying with them an ambiguity that would weigh on his shoulders and might as well crush hers.

"You forgot something," he smirks, raising a hand.

The keys are dangling from his fingers and she bites down on her lower lip, gaze travelling from his face to the car and back to his face again, and his other hand hasn't moved from her arm. She hesitates for a moment too long, and he averts his eyes an instant too late and she's no longer able to tell what's more dangerous, the place or the proximity, what she saw in his gaze or what he might have read in hers.

"Sam."

He's taken to calling her like that not so long ago, only now it feels like she's known him since her first breath, and his whisper fills the small space that separates them, reminding them that he's come alive the day she did.

"Jack. Don't."

She can't see his eyes now, lost somewhere between the heat and the sand and the falling darkness, and the acute awareness of the grip he's maintained on her arm, but she feels his longing, shares it, wants him to make the decision she can't make for both of them.

The keys are in her hands, he lets go of her and time stands still as they remain frozen, until she knows for sure they'll melt like ice if neither of them reacts.

The seat creaks when she sits back inside, the tires screech as the engine comes alive, pinions grate and somehow they're back on the road, back on their way to nowhere except this time she can't pretend anymore that they won't find a city, in an hour or a lifetime. Her mind is on future cases, cases with people to interrogate in the middle of the desert, cars with air conditioning that doesn't work, vents breathing air so hot it burns your lungs with every breath.

She'll take a road trip with Jack whenever, even if it brings them on a road that smells of asphalt and burnt rubber and that leads nowhere and everywhere, or somewhere in between.

/ End of Interstate 10


	2. Delusions

Jack tries to convince himself that he comes to Sam's apartment for the view...

**# 2 ****- Delusions  
**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & setting: Sam's apartment, during their affair.

Sometimes, he lies awake in the early hours of morning, watching her sleep as the first lights of dawn bath the room in a warm hue. Sometimes he stays there, arms wrapped around her still form, content to simply listen to her steady breathing against his chest, reveling in the feeling of her body curled up against him, so easily, so naturally.

Sometimes he lets his thoughts drift past her shoulders, through the curtains and outside, reminding himself that it's what he comes here for− the unique view from her window, the perfect alignment of buildings standing in the clearing mist. He loves the pool of darkness, the halo of light, the silence and stillness, and the feeling of quietude that encompasses all in the early hours of morning. He's a part of this city, buzzing, vibrant, alive, splendid in ways he can't even describe, delicate and fractured so deeply that cracks run through its core, like scars, like veins.

Sometimes she stirs, her eyelids fluttering in the dim light, and he closes his eyes, pretending, faking to be asleep, breathing slowly as he forces his heart to beat in a regular rhythm, feeling her arms around him, touching him, needing him, loving him.

Mostly, he thinks of the way they complete each other, of their story, so real, so simple, of a man and a woman who smiled at each other one night and fell in love the next. He thinks of their relationship, affair, fling, this thing that they have, a thing that isn't just a thing and that's why giving it a name is as futile as trying to change their feelings for each other. He thinks of why he should let her go, why he can't let her go, why it is that gentle touches and looks and whispers are enough to hold them together.

Sometimes he replays recent memories in his mind, of a case, a conversation, an evening, hearing her whispering his name, one word on her lips that means more to him than she could ever know. Then he feels her shifting against him as she wakes up, comfortable, and he opens his eyes once more, seeking out the view from the window, the one he knows by heart− the buildings, the clouds, the sunlight chasing away the lingering darkness, everything so perfectly similar to the last time he was here.

"Jack?"

His eyes leave the window and find her face, the contour of her lips, her gaze. It's there again, the whisper, the name, the prayer, her vow. He moves his arm slightly, lets his hand brush against the back of her head, holding her against him, unwilling to move, afraid that if he does, the sky will fall and he won't see the streets again, the buildings, his city. His eyes begin their dance between the window and the bed, the sky and her body, outside, inside, as he hesitates to set his gaze on her, unsure of what it will mean if he stops lying to himself, stops pretending he's only here for the view.

He turns to look at her, sad and beautiful and fragile, like this city, falling and bleeding and hanging on to slivers of hope, of light, of life. At times, he wishes they could melt into its background, share fantasies and a lifetime away from the shards of reality and the splinters of truth that remind them of who they are.

"Are you okay?"

Sometimes he closes his eyes for the briefest of instants, opening them to see concern in her gaze as her fingers brush lightly against his face, his skin, with a tenderness he doesn't remember having experienced before. Sometimes he kisses her instead, feeling her relax in his arms as reality leaves for a moment, an eternity, forgetting them.

It's the view he comes here for, so he rolls out of bed, barefoot on the cold carpet, stumbling to the window, craving the familiar sight, needing to see beyond the glass panels, beyond the lies and disillusions. With trembling hands, he moves the curtains aside, oblivious to her eyes on his back, and he stares outside, far, far away from the realms of reality and time.

He hears her voice, soft, worried, asking uncertainly if something's wrong, but at least now she's touching him again, holding him. His arms encircle her as they float together to the world they've created to be inseparable, over and above the kingdom of steel and concrete at their feet, the entity breathing and moving with them and around them, their sanctuary, their prison.

"I wish we could save them all, Sam."

Sometimes they hold on to each other like that, breathing together, falling together, sharing a fading dream.

/ End of Delusions


	3. Redemption

You can see this either as the second part of Delusions (the tone is the same) or as a separate drabble.

**# 3 – Redemption**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & Setting: the bullpen, one night during their affair.

She can feel the emptiness in the vast area around her, creeping silently into the room, the city, the world. At night, they face it together, face the marred visages sculpted in the windowpanes and the silent screams that echo in the grating sound of pens scratching paper, of staples puncturing reports. Tonight it's just them, breathing and working and writing down people's existences in black ink, following the grey lines of white documents that scrape and age like parchment.

She wants to remember the perfection of the world outside, a world that lives and dies in the span of a glance, a touch, a whisper; but beyond the facades, beyond the faultlessness of this city, she sees the secluded alleys and pathways, and the deceitful lies that hide behind the fake beauty of carefully assembled truths. Beyond each wall, each closed door, she listens to a story no one else can hear, a story of beginnings and ends, of lives that become tiny particles of dust swirling in the breeze and disappearing in the night.

Sometimes he releases a quiet breath, and their eyes meet across the table, across the vacant space they use to fill up the missing parts and empty holes of their existences. They simply look at each other, trying to soothe, to reassure, saying nothing and yet managing to convey all the sadness and pain and hopelessness in a single glance. Every now and then, they share a moment like that, a ballet, and their eyes dance while the city weeps and wails around them, calling them, imploring them.

Sometimes, she feels attracted to the darkness, attracted to the obscurity that covers the streets, mysterious and unobstructed, and she stops writing, dropping her pen before she stands and walks unsteadily to the window. She trails her fingers along the glass, letting them fall slowly along the smooth surface, touching a ghost, a fragment of tangibility. She sees her life reflected in the panes, in the imperfections of the buildings across the street, in fissures that run so deep they invade every corner of her skin, her heart, her soul. 

Her eyes move and rest on him for a second, on his silhouette, but the shadows claim her and she loses herself in the endless night, the ocean of darkness.

"Sam?"

The name slips off his tongue and floats in the air, brushing against her, against him. She feels his hand on her arm as he pulls her back from the darkness, enveloping her instead with his strength, his comfort, his love. In the void, haunting silence, she can feel her mistakes becoming his faults, his lies becoming her sins; and their lives fuse, their fears and scars and dreams impossible to unravel.

Sometimes they stay here together, flawed and shattered and beautiful, both free and trapped since the day they found each other long ago, so long ago she doesn't remember life without him. It's easier to believe that salvation comes with a blink, a brush of fingers against soft skin; easier to ignore the darkness that falls with the night and easier to hold on to him, to his face, his hands, his eyes that have freed her and lost her more times than she can remember.

"I wish I could save you."

His voice shatters the fragile silence, the darkness retreating for a second, a tiny instant. His words reverberate around them, quiet, vain, as if unaware of the sacrifices they make every day, every hour, when they save the world and forget to save each other.

Sometimes his fingers close around hers, and she clings to him, trying to never let go, never say good-bye, never let the cool spheres of reality interfere with the bubble of peace they've built to keep from falling, from getting hurt. For a moment, the fissures and cracks conceal themselves, and the emptiness recedes into nothingness as they hold on to each other, to the world, to their materiality a little bit longer.

It's dark and cold and lonely, so lonely he disregards the time and place and wraps an arm around her shoulders, around her, holding her. He feels warm and calm and wonderfully real, more real than the rest of the world, more real than the cold city that stretches into the darkness, whispering lies and truths no one can untangle.

"You did, Jack," she whispers. "You did."

/ End of Redemption


	4. Poker

Something fun for a change…

**# 4 – ****Poker**

Rating: T  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: fluff  
Timeline & setting: Sam's apartment / the bullpen.

"You don't happen to play poker, do you?"

An amused glance. "All Italians play poker."

"Well you're not Italian, not really."

"True."

"And I'm sure there are Italians who don't play poker…"

… but then again, she wouldn't really know.

"Sam, you're not a poker player."

She doesn't blink− it's not like _he _would know how good she is at this sort of game. "You think you'd win?"

A cautious frown tells her that he _does_ know her better than she wants to admit. "I'll let you find out."

It's too late to back away: it won't stop until they end this.

"If I lose I'll ask my boss for a raise." Her lips quirk up in a smirk that he reciprocates. It's their evening, their game, their set of rules.

"Tokens?" he supposes.

"What, no cash? You backing out?"

He laughs. "No, seriously. Tokens?"

She rolls her eyes. Resourcefulness is a virtue, and she quickly comes up with a deck of cards and a box of matches.

"Haven't your parents taught you it's dangerous to play with fire?"

There are things in life than involve far more risks, she wants to reply, although a poker game with her married boss might rank high on the list of hazards. They both concentrate− flop, turn, river. Tonight, they don't play by normal rules.

"I'll raise you."

"You're bluffing."

He gazes back challengingly. "Wanna find out?"

Instead of replying, she piles some more matches.

"Now _you're _bluffing."

Her eyes don't leave his. She counters teasingly, "Wanna find out?"

"I can tell when you bluff. You look nervous."

"No I don't. Wanna bet?"

"Isn't it the point?"

A grin. Turn, river. A double pair. Aces. He smirks. She smirks back, shows him a straight. Not that matches are any good− you could bet millions without a care in the world. It doesn't feel like something real. Something worth it.

"Jack?"

He shifts in his seat. It's hot.

"Take off your jacket."

A pause. One look. Poker− dangerous game. "Only if you win."

The air's warm, too warm. He looses again and removes his tie along with the jacket. Doesn't even blink as he raises her once more and wins. The next hand is his. No more matches. She stands. Wants to remove her own jacket, but her muscles hurt. He slides behind her, his hands finding her shoulders.

"We should make poker a new institution in the office."

"Mmm." A quiet gasp, too close to a moan. "It'd be hard to account for the extra hours."

"Really?"

His hands are still on her when she turns around. "Really," she says before leaning forward. His body falls against her, warm and familiar. His lips are soft as he shifts position, deepening the kiss. His mouth finds her neck− eyes falling shut, lips teasing her ear. She tilts her head back, wanting to feel him more. On their own volition, her fingers find the buttons on his shirt− shirt on the floor, movements suddenly more purposeful.

"It was just supposed to be poker," he says in a breath. "No stripping."

She grins against his lips.

------------------------

"Jack, you know how to play poker, don't you?"

_Poker._

Sam.

Danger.

"Yeah, Danny. All Italians play poker."

"But you're not really−"

"True."

A deck of card lands on the table, but tokens aren't exactly standard office supplies. "What do we play with?"

Samantha smirks, challenging Danny with, "What are you willing to lose?"

He looks over at her, then at Jack. "Think she's any good?"

Flop.

Turn.

River.

Hands.

Hair.

Lips.

He adjusts his jacket− it's hot.

"How would I know, Danny?"

/ End of Poker


	5. Sunday

  


Even though this is long for a drabble, I've decided to post it here. Just something I came up with a while ago− I really think Jack should have told Sam that he was moving to Chicago before he told the rest of the team. Thanks for the support and reviews!

**# 5 − Sunday**

Rating: T  
Spoilers: S2  
Genre: angst/romance  
Timeline & Setting: before Jack announces he's moving to Chicago; his apartment.

He never drank on Sundays. He never called her on Sundays either.

Yet it was Sunday, there was a blue file on the coffee table, a whisky bottle near the phone, and he was hiding in the darkness of his own living room, dialling her number. A bad idea, he knew, but what else could he do? It wasn't like he had planned for this to happen− for Maria to come home and announce−

His mind wandered, dwelled on the possibility that she might not pick up, not be there. Not be his.

She answered on the fifth ring. Her voice was tired, surprised; she wasn't expecting a call.

"It's me."

There was a moment's silence and he could tell that she was hesitant; wondering, perhaps, who was calling− the boss or the lover.

"Are you home?"

Five rings and he licked his lips, gave a glance at the blue file on the coffee table, then turned his attention to the bottle of whisky, staring at it with a fascination that scared him. Then the words came out in a rush− "Yeah, Hanna and Kate are at a friend's house because they're having a birthday party and they wanted to stay the night and Maria's at a restaurant with some of her colleagues." He paused, added, in a voice that almost trembled, "Celebrating."

She could hear his breathing through the line, the slow rise and fall of his chest. She couldn't understand; nor did he want to explain.

"Jack?" A beat. "Is there anything I can do?"

He wanted to be with her and he wanted to forget her. And he couldn't do either.

"You know where I live?"

The silent was awkward, cutting through the miles between them, and her thoughts raced, mind trying to sort out things that were too complicated to sort out this late in the night. She had to say no− refusal, denial, whatever it was, would be the safest way out.

"Leave the door open."

A click followed and the line went dead. She fumbled an instant for the right keys, was startled when, two minutes later, the engine of her car came alive. The streets were empty and the streetlights, green for the most part. It didn't take her long to find his street, the building, a parking spot that was neither too close nor too far. Just the right, careful distance− in case someone saw her and she had to explain why she was here− a distance that was as much a part of her as the detour she took on foot to avoid the shortcut she knew she'd find if she took the street on the right.

The name on the mailbox, the chipped paint on the front door, the staircase with the creaky steps, it was all a familiar blur, a place he'd told her about even if, for too many reasons to count, she'd never set foot inside.

The door was open.

Her first thought was to look around and get a feel of the place where he lived. Each object, each piece of furniture was carefully arranged, and her eyes journeyed from the door at the end of the living room to the thick curtains to the frames on the wall, photographs of his family on the mantelpiece, a jacket− his− carelessly thrown over the back of the couch, an empty glass on the coffee table. There was an air of formality about the place, yet it was too clean and tidy to be comfortable and the jacket and glass looked like they didn't belong here. She was awkward, felt distinctively out of place in the apartment she'd never visited, and never would again.

Something else caught her attention. There was a folder on the coffee table, its color vaguely familiar. Blue. She couldn't remember what blue−

She spotted the phone next; a list of phone numbers, a notepad, a bottle of whisky− a small crease appearing between her eyebrows as she noticed the latter.

He never drank on Sundays.

"Thanks for coming."

Startled, she realized that he stood near the window; that in her haste to tour the place with her eyes, she'd overlooked the one thing she ought to have become aware of. She knew the posture well, the determination to keep looking outside, his head resting against the wall. He'd been waiting. Thinking.

He'd been thinking about her, about why he'd asked her to come, and he'd been thinking that it shouldn't have to be harder to say goodbye to her than it would have been to say goodbye to his wife.

"I wasn't doing anything," she said. It was succinct, almost blunt, and it was a lie: she was always busy on Sundays.

Turning from the darkness, he met her eyes. His gaze was inscrutable, but it held something−

Something dark and uncertain.

Something that scared the hell out of her.

He gave her the news quickly, almost as if it would make it less painful. Maria had been promoted. A job in Chicago, an opportunity she couldn't pass− she was going there, moving. As a result, he was leaving.

There was no emotion in his words. He was just telling her the facts, his expression neutral, his eyes unmoving for fear of what she might see in them. Another job, Samantha, another city. Another home, you know, Hanna and Kate want a garden and a swing, maybe a slide if there's enough space. Another team for me, it'll be fine, no real big deal, simply get another desk, another lamp, chair, another set of shelves.

Now she remembered.

Blue was for bureaucratic decisions− internal changes in staff; political crap from DC. And transfer applications.

"Chicago," she nodded slowly. Some kind of acceptance, and perhaps he'd been wrong, she wouldn't really care, wouldn't really want him to stay. But the smile didn't reach her eyes, and her murmur was distant. Defeated. "That's great for you, Jack."

He couldn't talk anymore, just watch her. She was confused and uncomfortable, and he wanted to beg for her forgiveness.

"So you have it all… sorted out, then."

Not yet, he wanted to tell her. Jesus, Sam, don't you see− not yet.

"You're going to leave the city," she pressed on.

Involuntarily, he glanced outside, his shoulder resting against the hard wall. The city. The crowded streets, the freedom, the lights and shadows, and within it, his life. His daughters' birthplace, the city with a thousand lies and a thousand truths, where Chet Collins had hoped, where Anwar Samir had breathed, where Annie Miller had died. The place where he'd lived, laughed and joked and cried and−

"You're… going to leave New York," she was saying. "You're going to leave the team, leave the office. You're going to leave−"

She fell silent, abruptly.

That he loved his daughters, she'd never doubted. That he'd called her on a Sunday night to tell her how much she would later try hard to forget.

He crossed the room slowly, each step a dull ache in his knee. When he stopped, it was in the space between what was usually expected and what was not. Something flashed in her eyes− recognition and emotion; a raw, unspoken desire to erase the distance.

He had things to tell her. He had things he wanted her to know, only, there was too little time.

So he kissed her.

She reacted on instinct only, shock and uncertainly allowing him a few seconds before she suddenly moved away.

"Jack− no." Her palm went against his chest, arm extended to keep them apart. She was painfully aware that this was his home; that if they'd been in her apartment, if they'd−

There was a moment when her façade broke, and he was forced to look at her, see all the pain in her eyes. Again, he wanted to speak, but there were no more words, no more excuses to be made. Quietly, he raised a hand to touch her shoulder. There, it danced to her neck, brushed soothingly against her chin, cheek, forehead, and he pushed back the stray hair out of her face.

Then they were kissing and holding and comforting, his hands roaming and touching and her tongue pulling and pushing and their bodies colliding with each other, he couldn't leave, couldn't go, couldn't−

His hands held her against him, and a haze started to form over her thoughts, her mind only registering the sensual feel of his tongue in her mouth; the warmth of his body. She gripped at the back of his shoulder, the creases of his rumpled shirt, begging, pleading with him to stay. And wanting to give him a reason to.

Their movements gradually slowed and then stopped, her mouth left his, and they were looking at each other again, his hand cradling her head. Their eyes held the moment, her hand trailing upwards. She brought her fingers to his cheek, was startled when she felt the moisture there and soon, her own tears threatened to spill.

"Is this good-bye?"

He kissed her again instead of answering, his arms around her arms and the familiar weight of his body falling against hers. It was sweet and slow, less hungry, more laden with desperation as he tightened his hold on her waist, his lips journeying to her neck, her throat.

Tilting her head backwards, she commanded herself to speak. "Tell me the truth, Jack."

A single tear rolled down from the corner of his eye when he looked up again, poised to fall and crash in the few inches of space separating them. "I love you."

She wished it could be that simple, that easy, that right. "I know."

He caught her before she stumbled backwards, drew her shaking body against his own. Her heart raced against his chest and her head on his shoulder was a familiar comfort− a comfort he'd had, once, when they'd clung to each other like that, his hand in her hair and her face in his neck. He wanted to hold her until the end of the night, the end of time, maybe.

The night was crystal clear and the apartment was dark, and his eyes were equally dark when they finally pulled away. She wondered if she could; if she should, maybe, ask for one of these photographs that ornamented the room, if only to keep with her forever the memory of him, the memory of his eyes, his face, the feel of his arms around her.

There were others faces around, though, and they only served to remind her of the place and time.

She whispered. "She could…"

His eyes shut momentarily, and then he was looking down, at the floor. The distance between them was again one that was appropriate, if not comfortable. But he'd never forget her silhouette framed in the doorway, the weak, uncomfortable smile she offered him across the empty space of the living room. She was hurt and sad and beautiful, and she couldn't know that he felt so alone.

"Come back. I know."

She had her back to the door, but it was easy to turn around, face once more the metal knob and the chipped dark paint and escape his attentive eyes− eyes that, no matter what was said, and no matter how far he went, would always seek out hers.

"Samantha," he spoke, softly. "Act surprised when I tell the team."

It wouldn't be very hard, she knew. She gave him a brief nod, and wiped away a tear.

She wasn't supposed to cry on Sundays.

/ End of Sunday


	6. Silhouette

**# 6 − Silhouette**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: Copycat / MvsM  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & Setting: Jack's apartment, sometime in the near future

She looks at him from the clouds as he passes drab street corners, her eyes chasing him down the alleys checkered with lights and shadows and the reflection of fading blue sky. Her silhouette is framed against the windows and buildings, at once a dream and a vision, her hair bathed in the waning light of cold evenings. He's never free of her presence; not at the office and not at home, and certainly not today.

A hand cradles his head, the fingers running through his hair. It's been so long since she's done this, he's almost forgotten how it feels. But she made him a promise once, to be with him in this moment, and that's why she's here today-- that's why she'll be here next year.

On this day, on this night, he can cry over the simple things that make up a life; over the unique light of a faded photograph and the echo of a voice; a picture, a few scrawled lines that resemble a poem. On this night, she can let him know that he's not alone, feel the depth of his sorrow and the knots and twists of the love that still runs in his veins for his mother.

"She's beautiful, Jack." 

The lines on the picture have faded with the years, but beyond the grainy black and white photograph, he can still hear her voice and see the light in her eyes. She watches him from time to time, drinking G&T with a cigarette and more ice cubes that can fit in the glass. Her beauty was fragile, almost intangible, he remembers. He'd loved her with a child's innocence, loved her when she sat on the faded white couch and loved her when he found out she drank G&T under the moonlight with a pack of cigarettes waiting on the coffee table.

He'd loved her when she left.

He remembers that afternoon, thoughts drifting away to classes and homework and maybe that girl who'd smiled at him shyly on the bus. He remembers how she left on a quiet, ordinary late afternoon, slipped through the crack of the garage door like unsubstantial air, the echo of her voice the only testament that she'd been there at all. He had misinterpreted her departure, misread her peck on the cheek the previous evening as a good-night, failed to notice that in truth, she was saying good-bye.

He wants her to be real once more. He wants to pretend finding those who are lost will keep a part of her alive. Perhaps by searching pathways and streets parks, by helping people he doesn't know, he'll forget that he failed to save her.

The photograph pales, the skin slowly becomes translucent as his eyes blur. He hears her whispers in the air, feels an arm protectively draped around his chest.

"She'd be proud of you."

He turns to the other person in the room, her face as beautiful and sad as it should be on this day, her heart tied to his in places they have to pretend do not exist. He'd worked with her, loved her in the snow-covered alleys and the blazing heat of the summer and he'd loved her down the crowded streets of New York, found in the comfort of her presence a gift from the sky and misinterpreted it, fallen blindly into the love that they shared. He'd tried to understand, dissected his feelings for her in the dead of night, cried over the two women he'd never have and laughed at the rain from behind the window of his empty car, pretended she was a fling, and their affair was a misunderstanding.

It was easy to escape the way he'd come, with a glance and a smile, a soft whisper against her lips. It was easy to think of the time they'd spent together as a mistake. He'd left her with a soft kiss, and a silent good-night.

Just the way his mother had.

"I knew she would do it."

"You were sixteen," she whispers, fingers still running through his hair, soothingly.

He remembers sinking into the sofa thinking about the girl on the bus, hating the silence of the empty living room, and the absence of his father even more. He didn't know, didn't care back then what her mother's smile looked like under the stars. He cares now because he's afraid he'll one day forget to remember her.

"I loved her so much, Sam."

"I know."

He shuts his eyes, feeling the burning sensation behind his eyelids at the reminder that love is, and always will be, about pain. He shifts on the couch, closer to the woman who might have rescued him long before he realized he needed to be saved. He leans back against the grey cushions that remind him of home and also reminds him of the black couch in her apartment, leans back against it with her arm laced around his neck and her voice easing him into a confort he doesn't think he deserves.

It's late but her hand lingers in his hair, the gesture tender, loving.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she whispers

And with a sad smile, he answers, "I'll see you next year."

/ End of Promises


	7. Significance

Change in style just for this entry− it's still JS, but viewed differently, and from a definitely more down-to-earth point of view. I'm experimenting a bit with this one, so I'm open to criticisms, comments, suggestions (and then I'll know I have to stop experimenting!)

**# 7 − Significance**

Rating: K+/T  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: general  
Timeline & Setting: set during their affair**  
**

She asks the question in the same tone she uses for everything else− neutral, keep it simple, don't get your hopes up too high. That's how they convince themselves that it's nothing (just sex, no strings attached).

"You gotta go home tonight?"

She wants him to say yes, since it's the right thing to do, but she knows he'll say no (it's the easy way, and he's weak: he says, 'I can't come over' and she runs a finger along his arm, she smiles, he melts, and he comes over anyway.)

Most of the time, they end up at her apartment. She leaves the office, he knocks on her door twenty minutes later, she lets him in, he hands her a plastic bag (takeout dinner, condoms, the occasional pile of files when there's still work to get done.) When they're at the hotel, they have a routine as well: she waits for him, he gets out of the elevator, they kiss. Surely, as an FBI agent, he'd know if there were security cameras in the corridor, right?

Tonight, they've left the office at the same time. There are security cameras there, for sure, but who the hell watches the tapes anyway?

"Maria's expecting me."

When he sees her standing there, he adds, "What?"

She shrugs. It's part of their routine too− don't ask, don't tell, don't look like you care. "Nothing."

He wonders, like often, if nothing added to nothing still amounts to nothing. Surely it means _something? _Or is he searching for a significance that simply isn't there? One day, he thinks, he'll ask (when they'll both be drunk enough.) But for now, he shrugs in return, lets the weight of it all ease itself off his shoulders− he'll care in the future, just not right now.

"Wanna get something to eat first?"

It's not like she would refuse, so he takes her hand, walks down the street with her. Someone could see them, but everyone went home− that's why they found each other in the first place. The streets are dark and silent, with only the occasional passer-by, a group of friends around the corner and another couple (they're holding hands too, maybe they shouldn't be?) Before he enters the place they've stopped at, he turns her to him and kisses her. He knows words should accompany the gesture; but which ones? Explanations? Promises? A declaration of… whatever it is that he should be declaring?

When they part, it's only because if they stand outside too long, the restaurant will close for the night.

Dinner's served quickly, conversation flows easily. It always does− how hard could it be to talk about work? When they breech more personal subjects, it's always because a) they need to (if he sleeps at her place, he has to tell her why Maria won't be suspicious) or b) it's accidental (he makes a comment, she looks up, the question falls from his lips, his curiosity is satisfied.)

The check's on him. He invited her in the first place, and besides, he always pays. Maybe, she reflects, he wants to be forgiven for being her part-time boss and her part-time lover. The fact that he knows what to order for her, they both try hard to forget (just like they forget that she's under his command, he has kids, his wedding ring scrapes her skin every time he touches her).

Back in the car, she gets to drive− he likes to relax and look outside, or leave his hand possessively on her thigh. At her apartment, he takes out the key− she gave him one, so why keep it hidden at the bottom of his pocket? Their relationship is already complicated, they don't need extra complications. It's bad enough that she has to wonder if she should free a drawer for him, if she needs to buy aftershave, if he wants her to wash his shirt before his wife notices that the stain on his collar is lipstick (like she wouldn't notice the change in detergents anyway.)

The switch's working, but there's no light. She sees him in the doorway, not looking at the switch or the unresponsive light bulb, just watching her. Usually, they kiss after that (and take it to the bedroom, light or not.) But tonight feels different, so she gathers some courage. Someone has to ask if the fact that he seems to enjoy spending time with her, regardless of the activity− work, dinner or sex− actually means that he cares for her the way she knows she cares for him.

"Jack?"

She needs to know, she thinks he does too, and it's too late to back out because she has his attention. "Does this actually mean anything?"

She can't see his eyes (it's too dark and besides, she's glad she doesn't have to meet his gaze).

"Yeah. You gotta change the light bulb."

/ End of Significance


	8. Goodbye

A short post FOII drabble, just because I've never written one.**  
**

**

# 8 − 

****Goodbye**

Rating: K  
Spoilers: At Rest  
Genre: Angst  
Timeline & Setting: post FOII. The hospital.

The heat is in her dreams, suffocating and invading the corners of her mind that keep the rest of her sane. She wakes up alert, palms moist and sweat trickling down her back-- waiting for the gunshot to resonate in the silent hospital room; for the cold barrel of a gun to be pressed against her temple. Her mortality, now, is clearer than ever, closer than she thought, scarier.

In between the beeps and hisses, she wonders if they would miss her.

If he would.

--------------------------------

She waits for him. His eyes. His voice, shaking with guilt and regret and alive with something that lasted for an instant and will stay with them forever. She hears him when she's awake and she sees him when she's asleep. He watches her, teases her.

_Miss me, Sam?_

Like there are days when she doesn't.

--------------------------------

He shows up in the gloom of pre-dawn, his shirt white and red, much like the cross on the bandage they used on her leg. He has this stride-- fearful and cautious and purposeful. His eyes aren't white, or red, or even dark; they have shades and layers of colors and emotions that enter the room before he even pushes the door.

The quiet beeps of the hospital monitor keep them apart like the blood she's left on him, only it's not just hers, it's Barry's, it's Nicole's, and the stain isn't really just a stain either, more like a river, crimson on white, fear on top of hope and too many layers of emotions in between.

His voice carries above the lies and truths, the realm where they've built their dreams. In the darkness of dawn, he voices what she cannot.

"I'm sorry."

--------------------------------

When her mind drifts, she thinks of her mother, of her sister, of the ones she would have liked to see just one more time. She thinks of the man she killed and it makes her wonder why she held a gun yesterday. Or if she will hold one tomorrow. She wonders, like often before, how hard it would be to forgive and be forgiven.

Inevitably, she thinks of Jack.

Their goodbye on the bench had been clouded with hesitation, sadness, but there'd been something in his eyes, something perhaps a little light and hopeful and it's the only thing she wants to remember.

This goodbye, she fears, will be stiff and formal.

And final.

--------------------------------

She's not sure what wakes her up, his voice or her own screams. He pulls her to his chest, rocks her like she remembers he once did, only now, it feel wrong and uncomfortable and she wants nothing more than to sleep again. She disengages herself from around his arms, mumbles a word or two he can't possibly catch. He lets her go, standing from the side of her bed where he'd taken a seat.

He worries about her. About her life, about her nightmares.

"It's the first one," she lies, not wanting to have to deal with this with him.

His face nods, his eyes tell her he doesn't believe her. "They'll go away," he says softly.

"When I'm dead," she says without thinking.

But thinking is something he does a lot lately, and he takes her hand, shakes his head forcefully. "Don't say things like that, Sam. Just don't."

--------------------------------

She wonders if maybe in the span of that tiny second, she'd moved an inch, spoken a word. If she hadn't been in that exact spot, if Barry hadn't fired, if Jack hadn't come to claim her as his. Perhaps he did what she never could; he weighed his life against hers and he made a decision no one else could. She'll be forever grateful for that. And forever indebted.

He should've asked, she thinks.

He should've asked first. What's more important, Sam, your life or mine?

She would have weighed her sins against his on the same balance and she would have said, yours. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking. Perhaps she would have told him, mine, Jack. My life. And he would have entered the bookstore like he did, and he would've left her with a brush on the cheek and he would've walked away not knowing that it was the same thing anyway, that he was her life.

--------------------------------

He rises solemnly. Obligations call for his presence elsewhere, but his heart lingers, stays in the place where she'll forever be alone.

His parting words are mere whispers, hollow and quiet.

"I'm sorry for everything."

/ End of Goodbye


	9. Casual

A short ficlet that I wrote after watching (again) 2x02, in which Samantha mentions spring picnics...

**# 9 ****– ****Casual  
**

Rating: K  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: fun  
Timeline & setting: July 2001, the FBI's spring picnic.

Casual. What exactly is casual supposed to mean? Samantha flips through the clothes in her wardrobe, anxiously trying to determine which one of her tops fits the _casual _description best.

She wonders how they'll dress. Vivian will probably take off the heels and she grins irrationally at the image forming in her mind of Danny wearing a yellow, flasy Hawaiian shirt for the traditional summer picnic photo. And Jack with a pair of jeans holding a beer− that would be interesting.

She finally finds what she's looking for: a light beige top that isn't too ostentatious, and that she can match with just the right necklace.

--------------------------------

The festive atmosphere that greets her when she arrives is what she expected: laughter, some background music and a huge barbecue in the middle of the lawn. Although she's not precisely late, she can tell she's not the first to arrive. There are many cars with open doors and kids playing around, people gathered here and there in groups and the air smells of barbecue sauce and grilled marshmallows.

"Five more minutes and I would've officially listed you as missing," a voice suddenly says behind her.

She wheels around and is greeted by a smirking Danny. To her surprise, he's wearing a simple white shirt unbuttoned at the top− classy but, she has to admit, strangely _casual_.

"Give me a break," she smiles, rolling her eyes. He's chewing on some chips and holding a glass of what looks like ice tea.

"Next year you'll be on time, believe me," he tells her with his mouth full. " 'cause half the marshmallows are already gone."

She laughs and follows him so he can introduce her to some people from other departments. It's strange to see all of them laid-back and having a good time. Leaving Danny's company when she spots Vivian, she makes her way through the crowd of families and friends.

"Are you in on the baseball game?" Marcus asks. "I hear we're a few people short."

She hesitates. She's heard about the traditional baseball game− it's their one chance to beat the heck out of some OPR guys, and that's an opportunity you don't pass.

" 'course she's in."

It's Jack who answers. She hasn't heard him arrive, so she's rooted on the spot for an instant. His gaze meets hers. Time stills. He's teasing her, challenging her to look away. Her eyes journey down his cotton shirt and blue jeans, and she feels herself blushing.

--------------------------------

"That was a nice game," Jack comments later, when the party's drawing to an end. "And that last home run− amazing. Not to mention−" he grins once more, "That they were sure you'd never played baseball before."

"Was that what you thought too?" she retorts flippantly.

"No, I knew you'd win. You always win."

Smiling at the compliment, she looks down at her shirt, grimacing at the dirt she got on it. "I look a mess," she comments without thinking.

"You look perfect."

The air's hot and the atmosphere playful but his grin suddenly fades, replaced by embarrassment. "I mean…"

"I know," she dismisses it quietly.

"Well I should, uh… go."

She knows his wife has taken Hannah and Kate back home earlier this afternoon. "Okay." Her eyes scream that she wants him to stay right where he is, but she says, "See you tomorrow."

She's ready to turn around when his hand brushes against her shoulder in a feather-like touch, and for a moment he gazes into the depths of her eyes, willing her to understand.  
"Sam." His whisper is barely audible. She's never thought of Jack as weak, but sometimes… "I can't."

She stops. It'd be so easy to ask, what the hell do you mean, Jack? But somehow she knows exactly what he's talking about and that's exactly why she doesn't want to talk about it. Sometime in the last few weeks they've become more than coworkers and she isn't sure how to deal with it, so she watches as her boss dressed in casual clothes stands in front of her, looking at her casual beige top and averting his eyes because there are things you really can't discuss , even at a casual picnic.

"I know. Just... just go, Jack."

She watches him walk away… and thinks about the next picnic, when she'll get the chance to see him holding a beer and tucking his hands in jean pockets, reminding her in a strangled voice that he's married, she's met his wife, and there are things that really can't happen, casual picnic or not.

/ End of Casual


	10. Books

**# 10 - ****Books**

Rating: T (for language)  
Spoilers: S1  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & Setting: Barry's trial. It's messy, but deliberately so!

The experience is similar to watching an old tape, being forced to relive in detail a moment in time you never want to think about again. And she can't sort out her feelings. Confusion, certainly; fear, perhaps; discomfort, yes, absolutely.

Forward comes Sydney, forward comes Ted, forward comes Barry.

_Heard the shot.  
_

_Saw the blood.  
_

_Tried to help._

Yeah, yeah, lots of screams and panic all of a sudden. All hell breaking loose… Barry? Yeah, yeah, total whacko. Or maybe, simply, a man who'd loved and lost his wife?

Confusion… yes, because they all stand within a distance of five feet from her and none of them ever meet her eyes when they speak. Have they been given instructions? _Look at the jury and don't make eye contact with Samantha Spade because…_

Because what, really?

Of all the things that have happened in the last few weeks, this perhaps is what puzzles her the most. She wants to shake them, ask them why they can't, ever, look at her in the eyes. Regret? Fear? Guilt? _What?_

Confusion, also, because every sentence, every word seem to be telling a very, very interesting story, but a story nonetheless. Something disconnected from the world, stuff a mile away from reality, something you see, perhaps, in novels and movies. Hostages, gunshots, blood. And books.

Lots of books. With titles she still sees in her sleep.

Damn it, she wants to tell them all. This is my life you're talking about. Can't you speak about that night like it's more than a story told in that glacial courtroom where a man is being tried?

"Supervisory Special Agent Jack Malone."

She watches as he stands beside her. They have questions for him. They will have questions for her too.

But his, perhaps, are harder to answer.

It's rewind and fast-forward all over again. It's every minute of that hot, painful night that he has to go through. Hostages, gunshots, blood.

And books.

Funny, how he puts it. He's spent the past three and a half weeks rehearsing this speech, these sentences, so they sound as every bit as formal and emotionless as they do now. Decision. Responsibility. Priorities. It sounds as cold and un-Jack as it can possibly sound, and she wants to clap. Bravo, Jack. You even sound like you mean it. Like I was this object you had to retrieve because it was your duty to−

_Shit, why's he talking about me like that?_

She feels what she's been feeling since that night− anger, pain, disappointment, loss, and this unbearable sense of confusion. _Do you know what you do to me, Jack? What you mean to me? Why do you… why do you do that to me? __Don't you realize that I was dead until you walked in and showed me that life meant love, and love was life? _

_I loved you. I still love you. _

_Did I tell you I love you?_

He's back beside her, his face impassive, but there's this… this tremor in his gaze when he looks sideways at her. This… deep fear that she can see when he grips his seat with a trembling hand. She saw it once before, a couple of weeks ago, when he came to tell her they'd have to testify.

The judge calls for a break and she stands, stretching her bad leg.

"You ok?"

She sits again. No, Jack, not ok at all. Can't you tell? Can't you see that I'm not fine anymore? Can't you see that, Jack?

"We're gonna have to stop playing this game."

She says it like it's a fact, but in a half-whisper, because she doesn't want anyone to overhear it. A part of her hopes Jack hasn't heard either.

"What game?" he blurts out.

Ted walks by on his way out and she follows him with her eyes. Ted. The American kid who lost his innocence in a bookstore when a hostage taker unexpectedly fired his gun and shot an FBI agent. It sounds so much like a bad scenario that she laughs quietly.

"Sam?"

Anger, now. Ok, so you got the hell out of this relationship, don't you dare talk to me like we're still the best friends in the world.

"Stop calling me that."

He has this one third-frown, one-third concerned and one-third I-want-to-kiss-you look on his face. And it makes her downright uncomfortable.

"Stop pretending we're more than− than what we are." She swallows, hard. "Because we're not. Not now. Not anymore, ok?" She put a finger on his chest. "You got all you needed, Jack. You got this hostage crisis solved. You got your family back."

He stares at her fingers for a moment, like the answers are there. Like… Like she's some sort of puzzle he's still trying to solve and she wishes he could.

Wishes he had.

"What have _you _got?" he wonders in a breath.

I got my life, she wants to tell him.

I got this… memory of you with me.

I got−

_Shit. I got nothing left._

There's a sudden activity in the room before they can continue this conversation. It signals the end of the intermission and tells her that she's up next. She's… going to be the one speaking. Remembering. Trying hard not to analyze. Trying hard not to simply come forward and say, it's unfair. That night was unfair. I got shot and I didn't deserve it. Nicole died and she didn't deserve it.

Ted finally looks at her for a brief instant.

Funny. How for the rest of her life she'll associate his face with books.

Lots and lots of books.

/ End of Books


	11. Happy Valentine

This is me still wondering why Jack and Sam mentioned Dr Fred so casually…

**# 11 – ****Happy Valentine  
**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: assuming there really is one, I'd say romance  
Timeline & Setting: a restaurant downtown, a few weeks after their affair supposedly ended.

"Some patients require different psychological approaches. It's difficult to understand for those who haven't been to med school, but being a general practitioner means you're often the first one to come in contact with families, and of course you have to be a bit of a therapist as well..."

She should have known better than to ask. An innocent question about his work and next thing she knows, she's seated at a conference on practitioner/patient relationships.

"Must be rewarding," she says half-heartedly. She supposes she has to give these vague and meaningless comments from time to time or they'll be left with absolutely nothing to discuss other than the weather. Although, now that she thinks of it, it might be more interesting.

"Indeed. I wanted to help people since I was a kid. Now, some patients aren't really sick, they're seeking attention, and it's precisely my job to give it to them or−"

"Or advise them to seek the help of a therapist," she supposes, hoping he'll move on to something else soon.

"Indeed," he says again.

_Ok_, she thinks, _if you say that word one more time I might actually slap you. And I don't care that you're so good-looking._

She stops listening as he goes on, and lets her eyes travel around the place, observing the other patrons. A businessman making a call, two friends deep in conversation, another couple about to enter the restaurant...

The door opens, she looks at them, and for a second, her heart forgets to beat.

--

Businessmen, friends, couples. Jack's gaze scans the diner, curiosity mixed with habit as his mind automatically registers that there's an emergency exit by the counter, the man in a dark suit by the window is on the phone, and there's a couple−

He's suddenly aware of her presence, the fact that she's not alone, and worse− he knows she's spotted him and he has a sudden urge to take Maria's arm and drag her out before _she _notices anything.

By the time they're handed the menus, he has to remember to breathe.

"So, uhm, how did your case end?"

"Oh," he says, caught off guard. Maria and he… well, he wasn't expecting to talk about his work. He supposes she's trying to make conversation, and he also supposes she expects him to return it.

"Well, you know, fine."

It's a lie. His case ended up dead.

"Good." She frowns slightly, like she doesn't quite believe him.

"How did yours turn out?"

Maria opens her mouth and speaks but, for the life of him, he can't understand a word. But he's definitely glad he's the one seated on this side of the table. From here he can see her movements, her eyes going back and forth between her glass and her date. His instincts kick in as he starts listing in his head her reasons for being here, her motives. It's a disease, he figures, being on the lookout for alibis on such a night. Thinking about the excuses she'd make to him− like she still owes him explanations.

"So it's been a long case," Maria finishes.

Nodding, he hopes she isn't waiting for him to reply. Relief flowing over him when the waiter arrives to take their order, he chooses the first item on the menu and seizes the opportunity to stand up and whisper a quick apology to his wife.

--

She can't believe he's here and she can't believe who he came here with, and she can even less believe her eyes when he joins her in the minuscule corridor between the door and the lady's room. Her arms folded across her chest, she faces him, the lamp on his side making it impossible for him to see her eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

He leans against the wall, his gaze dark when he answers, "Having dinner. It's Valentine's day." Before she has the time to heave an exasperated sigh he adds, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Having dinner," she retorts. "It's Valentine's day."

It's not that he expected her to stay home, but he just... he honestly wasn't prepared for this.

"He got a name?"

It's her turn to use the wall for support. Her eyes turn downwards, to the floor, in search of an escape from his attentive gaze. But just as fast she looks up again, and their eyes hold in the dim light, a reminder that she can't escape him. Trapped in his gaze, she mutters, "Doctor Fred." And when he raises an eyebrow, she clarifies needlessly, "Frederic. That's his name."

"I'm not going to take a guess on what he does for a living," he says sarcastically.

"It's complicated, Jack."

"Really? I thought you liked them pretty simple."

The hurt that creeps into her eyes is almost too much for him to bear. He steps closer, perhaps too close. His hand rises to face level, tentatively brushing against her neck, and she can see both his pain and questions. But he doesn't understand that whoever Fred is, he'll never be like−

"Jack−"

_Your wife's here. _

_Don't do this._

She knows he'll kiss her if she doesn't move away. So she does the only thing she can think of right now, she pushes him back. And she wills her voice to remain steady as she mutters, "I've moved on."

His eyes seem to burn a hole in hers as he moves to stand in the corner by the lamp. He opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but instead states, "So did I."

Their eyes are still locked, even as he tries to avoid her stare, even as she tries to avoid his. She's stuck between him still form and the wall, stuck between his silence and her own and that silence remains because she's too afraid to speak and he's too afraid to listen.

In a quiet voice she finally wonders, "Then what are we doing here?"

He moves towards her again. Two steps, calm and measured, and she has no idea what he's doing.

Apparently, he does.

She can suddenly feel his breath in her neck. "Trying to convince ourselves," he whispers before turning around and walking away.

--

He's smiling at her, because that's what husbands do, they smile at their wives on Valentine's day. They pretend they've resolved their differences. The food is delicious, and he wishes he could say the same about the company, except the one he wants is seated four tables apart.

The wine bottle hasn't moved and neither has Samantha's date. He can see her fidgetting with the corner of her napkin, trying to keep her emotions in check.

When he and Maria rise and walk out fourty-five minutes later, she makes damn sure she's right behind him when they exit the dinner. They eyes finally meet, for the tiniest of instants, and it's enough for a decision to be made. Neither Maria nor Fred notice the look Jack gives her, but neither notice the look she gives him in return either.

He's never been so glad they've come directly from work and they each have their cars. "Listen, uhm, I forgot some files at the office, I'll just go and pick them up."

Maria looks annoyed but she tells him, "Okay. I'll wait for you at home."

--

It takes them less than two minutes to find Dr Fred's car, but Samantha suddenly stops. He comes to an abrupt halt behind her, a baffled expression on his face.

"I forgot, I took my car this morning," Sam tells him. He looks fooled− or maybe not really but she couldn't care less as she finishes, "I'll just drive back home."

"Alone?"

"Indeed," she says, an undercurrent of sarcasm in her words.

--

She turns the key, the key turns in the lock, the lock clicks, the door opens.

"Sam−"

She silences him with her hands, her lips, pulling him against her and he complies, hands pressed against her back. It's just one of these nights when no amount of pretending will make it right. When they met back in front of the restaurant, they both knew where they were going next.

He knows exactly what she felt when she saw him seated there with his wife, because it's exactly how he felt when he saw her eating dinner with her date. So he kisses her, to block the thought, to forget about what he saw, what she said, what he said in return.

By the time he's led her backwards to the bed, he takes a breath and asks, "How is Dr Fred?"

It's bold and challenging and she replies, "Busy."

His lips ache to kiss her once more. "And unavailable?"

"Mmm... Yeah."

"Isn't it how you like them?"

She brings her eyes level with his. "Indeed."

/ End of Happy Valentine


	12. Sunset

**# 12 – ****Sunset  
**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & Setting: Miami. Pre-affair.

There are fruits, idle chatter, music, and fresh drinks to cool the impossibly damp atmosphere. Samantha moves to get a late-evening view of the beach, passing influential guests with fancy cocktail glasses, bottles of alcohol and drinks with bubbles, various colors, and ice.

The fabric of her dress, by now, is plastered to her skin so strongly it will surely take her what's left of the evening to unglue. She walks to the balcony, every square inch of her body moist from the heat. She's sipping something cool in comparison− something with ice cubes that have not yet melted and clink against the sides of her glass like miniature chimes. The dimmed lights and tropical atmosphere are soothing, contrasting curiously with the formal and stiff decorum expected. There are palm trees, pineapples the size of watermelons, lobster-flavored delicacies, and waiters everywhere.

And him.

"Nice view."

He tries to sound bored or jaded, or both, but she feels his emotions and strain. It's in his special occasion tuxedo, his scrutinizing gaze, his when-the-hell-is-this-gonna-end tone of voice.

"Yeah… it's nice."

Nice isn't cutting it, but he's always had a taste for understatements. She thinks it ranks in the top ten most amazing, breathtaking sights she's ever seen. But that's before the blue-green waves in the distance remind her that this was the color of Julie Wallway's shirt before she was dragged in the dirt and mud and it became an ugly shade of dark, sticky brown.

And red.

There was red, she remembers.

He follows her eyes and raises his glass filled with an orange-colored mixture, stating, "Tequila sunrise."

It's something strong; something mind-numbing. Something that reminds her she's holding the same kind of liquid power. A piece of pineapple is precariously balanced on the rim of her glass, and she watches it sway dangerously as she lifts it to meet his in a toast.

At his raised eyebrows she answers, "Sex on the beach."

It gives him pause, his lips forming into a slight, amused "oh" as they stretch into a smile. There should be laws against having a smile like his, she thinks.

"What happened to 'never on the job'?"

He grimaces as the tequila hits his throat. "Must've skipped that lesson."

Clearly, so has she.

His eyes travel down to her neck and shoulders, but she doesn't know where they move to next because she'd rather have another sip of her sex-on-the-beach cocktail rather than risk finding out.

"Have you tried the fruit buffet?"

He knows she has. She caught him looking− no, staring at her dress a couple of times as she moved to the trays with fruits. But of course he'd pretended to be amiably chatting with other groups of people after that, acting like a jaded guest and talking about the Dow, top politics, his latest investments and his alleged 5,000 tux.

"I didn't know you liked papaya."

He's teasing her, and they're doing this dance around each other the same way they have all evening, with their eyes and smiles, finding each other with far more success than they've had finding little Julie Wallway's killer.

Instead of answering immediately, she pauses before she mutters, "I was hoping we'd get him tonight."

He falls quiet and shrugs, again with this apparent detachment she knows hides a degree of frustration directly proportional to the importance of the case. It's getting harder to pretend she doesn't know how to read him, harder still to pretend he doesn't know how to read her.

"We'll get him tomorrow."

At this point, she's done being careful. Whether it's the effect of that blood-red drink or the straight-from-a-postcard view, she shifts closer to him and meets his eyes. "We better, Jack."

She tilts her head aside in an invitation to go back to the party, but he simply finishes his drink, stays still and comments, "Everyone's a little drunk."

"I'm not."

A light coat of sweat beads his temples. "Samantha…"

He doesn't go on, watches her eyes stop on his collar, bow tie, and move back up to his face. Before she reaches his eyes, she stops and turns to watch the sunset instead− the beautiful, golden sunset on a sandy beach in Miami and the waves with brown reflects that come crashing on the shore.

She wishes he would look at it, would acknowledge that it's beautiful, perfect, that the view is more than 'nice' and she wishes he wasn't looking at her instead. Wishes he didn't have his eyes on her, like he can't fathom a more fascinating sight.

Wishes she had never seen him look at her like that.

"You, uh… you want another drink?" His tone is light, but his eyes are serious. "Or you want to take a walk on the beach?"

She thinks of those waves and the sand. She thinks of his tuxedo, the way his eyes haven't moved from her dress, Julie Wallway's small, lifeless body and the serial killer they'll catch tomorrow.

She thinks about the drunken guests, the fruit buffet, and the metal band around Jack's finger.

She isn't ready yet to do the unthinkable.

"I think I'll have that other drink first."

/ End of Sunset


	13. Eight Days

This one is set back when Jack and Samantha began their affair and even though I know better, I'll pretend just for the sake of this story that it was around winter time. Merry Christmas to all of you, have a great time with your family and friends!

**# 13 - Eight Days**

Rating: T  
Spoilers: none  
Genre: Romance  
Timeline & Setting: ahem… still in the middle of nowhere. And in the middle of the night.

The compacted snow on the windshield had started to freeze, the wiper blades stuck in the upright position. By morning, the ice would be at least an inch thick, and the surface would be as hard and translucent as glass. With such despicable weather conditions, the help they had received from the local agents had been more than welcome. Despite the arctic temperatures, Samantha had felt her spirits rise after their missing person had been found alive and they could finally enjoy a couple of hours drinking hot chocolate and watching cute kids playing outside in the snow.

Only when they reached the airport, shut down earlier in the afternoon, did her mood really change− and just like the rest of the grumpy-looking travelers, she had begun to wonder when she'd be getting home. It would have been easier, she realized now, to simply wait; to find a warm place to stay, order something to eat and watch a pay-per-view movie on an old television set. It would have been easier to enjoy the quiet, undisturbed peacefulness of a place with no dirty, crowded streets, no sirens wailing in background, no intruding lights that seemed, always, to challenge the night's darkness and impose its reign over New York.

Nothing had been planned, or thought-through, or the least bit anticipated, and Samantha was at least half responsible for this lack of preparation. But a few hours ago, no one had told her just how much snow there would be on the roads. A few hours ago, she didn't believe she would have to spend the night in a snow-covered rental car somewhere between Roberval and Trois-Rivières.

At least not with him.

Stealing a glance aside, she found him observing her. It wasn't the first time their eyes met like that, wasn't the first time she thought he wasn't looking, and wasn't the first time she tried to steady her heartbeat when she realized that he was. Once, that look had turned into more. Just once. But back then, they weren't in a car. And it wasn't cold. It was hot and there was thick carpet and two rooms and torrents of rain pounding on windowpanes, their doors were adjacent, and no one would find out if she never opened hers.

She needed to stop thinking about that night.

She would have welcomed a distraction, but couldn't risk starting a conversation. At the office, platitudes about the weather were unavoidable, bureaucratic banter was expected, work conversations were always safe. But personal inquiries… those were left for rare coffee breaks, non-existent case-free hours, and motel corridors where the air was damp, the place− what was the name of the motel again?− felt anonymous, the heat was suffocating and she really, really shouldn't have held his gaze like that.

She needed to… to stop thinking about him.

When he cleared his throat, she jumped. She turned to look at him, and his curious, attentive gaze was on her again.

"No network coverage," he said, closing his phone in defeat. Reaching up to kill the overhead lights, he gave her one last apologetic smile and let obscurity invade the enclosed space.

Her eyes returning outside, she sighed. It had stopped snowing, and there was enough moonlight to see two feet from the car, but darkness won out further than that. She fleetingly wondered who in their right mind lived out there, then, reconsidering, wondered who in their right mind decided to drive through three feet of snow instead of waiting for the airport to reopen. It had been his idea, but she'd been prompt to support it. For reasons she didn't want to think about.

A glance at the digits on the dashboard, and she blurted out, "Good thing you called your wife before we left."

He slowly turned to face her− frozen, but not because of the cold. His eyes remained fixed on her, hesitant yet strangely captivated.

"I suppose," he said neutrally.

Eight days and she should have known better. Questions about his wife… they were unprofessional in more than one way and if there was one mistake she couldn't afford to make, it was crossing the line of appropriateness with him again. Codes of conduct existed for a reason, but so did wedding rings.

"She was upset."

Her head shot up, acutely aware of the tone of his voice− quiet, but distinctly hurt.

"Maria," he elaborated needlessly. "She was upset because I woke up the girls. And because I told her I wouldn't be coming home tonight."

She knew− knew right there and then that it was becoming dangerous. But the words came out before she could stop herself. "You couldn't predict the snowstorm, Jack."

"I could've sent someone else."

Her mind raced as she tried in vain to find a rational explanation to his choice, a valid excuse. Something that would rationalize the situation they were in; explain in a very simple and logical way that they had no control over the contingencies that had brought them here tonight. "Vivian couldn't come, she had Reggie to pick up and Marcus had to work late−"

"Danny wanted to go."

She found nothing to answer.

"He asked me if he could be the one to go with you− get the opportunity to work a case outside the US, acquire some experience with other jurisdictions. He wanted to go and I should have let him… But I, uh..."

She bit her lip and he suddenly looked away, silence falling between them once more. She didn't know what to say or think anymore, didn't know what to feel except this dangerous, unacknowledged current between them that only reminded her that they would be spending the next minutes, the next hours, trapped in the same space.

Uncomfortable for reasons that were too numerous to sort out, she found herself longing for a cup of coffee, or simply warmer clothes. It was getting bitterly cold, and she tightened her coat around her shoulders. How could Jack look so relaxed? He'd thrown the car keys and his phone on the dashboard, when both had landed haphazardly; then he'd removed his jacket and gun holster, loosened his tie, and resignedly leant back into his seat, accepting their fate.

"Jack?"

He met her eyes. Eight days, and they hadn't talked about it. Not one word. Just looks− looks that meant yes, I wanted this, no, we shouldn't have done it; yes, I'll forever remember what your lips taste like and wish I could say I regret this, but not for the reasons that you think.

Eight days.

The quiet pounding of rain on motel windows, warm fingers trailing along his chest… sweat trickling down overheated skin, mind trying to decide how much they would later regret this. She liked him− a lot. Problem was, her boss didn't feel like her boss anymore and that's why they were in trouble.

"Last week…"

A beat, then a whisper of, "Samantha…"

He looked calm and the only indication to his inner turmoil was the slight crease between his eyebrows, barely visible in the halo of light cast by the moon.

"I just wanted to know if−"

She should have heard the warning in his voice, or read it in his gaze. His hand was suddenly on her, stopping her, his eyes tortured. "I can't." When she looked down at her forearm, he seemed to realize how strong a grip he had on her wrist, for he immediately let go.

He turned away, his conflict evident. "I can't… talk about it."

She watched him mutely for a moment, swallowed the lump in the back of her throat.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Okay," she repeated, and went back to staring at the night.

She wondered, not for the first time, what he was thinking. If he was thinking about his wife, about his sleeping daughters, or if he was thinking about that night, about their weaknesses for each other.

Suppressing a shiver, she shifted in her seat. The tips of her fingers were gradually becoming numb. The temperature would keep dropping in the following hours, and would do so until it would equal the one outside. She could already see icy air framing Jack's breath, their combined heat fogging the windows.

A long time passed before he reached for his jacket on the dashboard and his voice broke the silence. "Put this on."

She could only stare at him. It was a few seconds before she shook her head. "No, you should keep it for… later."

"Don't try to play the hero, Sam. You're freezing."

Indecisive, she raised her eyes to him. "Jack, I don't think…" The sentence remained incomplete when she caught the look in his eyes.

"Take it," he said, more quiet than expected.

Giving up, she took the offered coat. As she slid it on, feeling compellingly vulnerable, the digits on the dashboard changed to one o'clock. The coat still wore the smell of his perfume mixed with a characteristic Jack smell, a male scent of aftershave. It only reminded her of—

At the time, it was hot. The sort of humid, sweltering heat so characteristic of the South. But _at the time_ was only eight days ago, and now she was cold, there was snow outside, no network coverage, and she was wearing a coat that was warm.

Turning her head aside slowly, she wondered if he was sleeping. Despite the cold, the top of his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing an area of skin that she'd explored, though just once, lips brushing against soft flesh, the tip of her tongue teasing, tasting. Tie− tie slackened and her fingers working on it, loosening the knot. His rapid breath colliding with hers, a sign that the distance between them was no longer appropriate. Hands on his neck and they couldn't go anywhere else− somehow if they stayed on his tie− if she didn't touch _him, _then it would be enough and they… could… somehow… stop.

But they hadn't stopped.

Eight days and the memory was still vivid. Eight days and she could still feel his arms around her− heart speeding up, eyes fluttering shut from the feel of his lips inching along the neckline of her top, sharp intakes of breath followed by quiet exhales. Back then, there was a network and his phone had rung, though just a few times− the sound lost amidst wet kisses, unintelligible mutters and the soft pounding of rain, and his wife really should have chosen another time to call.

She'd done this before, not physically touching him, settling to undressing him with her gaze, eyes crossing a line he hands were never supposed to. Journeying upwards again, her gaze travelled shamelessly along the curve of his shoulders, the bulge of his Adam's apple, the outline of his lips and nose, his eyes.

Dark eyes, observing her.

It was a fraction of second before she looked away, embarrassed that he'd noticed her. And despite the cold, she felt a blush creep up her neck, a fire spreading through her as she wondered if his eyes had roamed over her body the way hers had over his.

They remained like that for a minute, two perhaps, each trying to find something appropriate to say. Still feeling the effects of the dropping temperature− or perhaps she was simply feeling naked under his gaze− she suppressed another shiver.

He cleared his throat, trying to deflect some of the awkwardness. "You're still cold," he stated.

Unable to voice a proper answer, she nodded.

"You should… uh," he turned around, looking behind at something she couldn't see. "You should go in the back. There's enough space to lie down."

She shot a quick look at him, and then a quiet nod followed. Deciding against showing off gymnastic skills, she took a deep breath, then pulled the handle of the door. It wasn't cold outside, it was painfully, impossible _freezing. _The overhead lamps turned on temporarily, the light fading when she reached the back of the car and closed the door quickly to keep as much cold air as she could at bay.

Kicking off snow-covered shoes, she shuddered again, and remembered that he was watching her. The leather groaned as she lied down on the row of back seats, refusing to meet his eyes as she found a more comfortable position. Folding her legs, she rested her weight on her left side, her field of vision reduced to part of the windshield, the back of the front seats, and Jack's elbow on the arm rest.

She let out a long, troubled breath, a breath that hitched in her throat when she saw Jack bending down to untie his shoes. It seemed to click by slowly, time suspended in an icy breath, a cold heartbeat, and she knew by now he was staring at his feet, wondering what he thought he was doing. If his socks held the answer, she did not hear them talk.

He turned and rose, fumbling for support. Wordlessly, he joined her on the row of back seats. It was his hand first, tentatively placed on her shoulder− his eyes never leaving hers and his legs brushing against hers, his body acting as a shield against the cold as she found herself between the backrest of the seats and him.

Everything enveloped her at once− his arms and warmth, a soft exhale of breath, the unspoken admission that even though he couldn't talk about last week, he could still do something about it.

--

Three beeps.

Three beeps came from his phone on the dashboard and she shifted in his arms, wondering how they had gotten so close. Granted, there wasn't much space to begin with, but she hadn't fallen asleep with her head against his chest. She moved again, realized that one of his legs had tangled with hers, his knee against her calf. Previously around her shoulders, his left arm now encircled her waist, the arrangement incredibly intimate.

Just as intimate as when they'd−

Opening his eyes, Jack remained immobile for a long moment. She was curled up against him, her face buried between them, her warm hands pressed against his shirt. Three distinctive beeps and he knew she was awake, but he kept his arm exactly where it was, his fingers against her skin, under the jacket, flirting with the hem of her top. She was warm in his embrace and it felt surreal, the way his body responded to this simple contact, to her legs around his, her heart thudding against his own.

He'd thought about her a little too much and a little too often during the previous week, had wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on her again, just the way he did now; if her lips were still as soft and wonderful as they had been eight days before when instead of entering his room, he'd pressed her up against the wall.

"Jack," she murmured.

He stilled. Swallowing the pressure building up in his throat, he slowly retrieved his hand. "I'm sorry. I−"

The proximity and the feel of her breath on his neck kept him from continuing.

She looked up at him, eyes struggling to find his in the darkness. He brought his fingers to her face, trailed a thumb lightly over her cheek, felt the current of indecision that floated between them.

"Sam, last week…"

"You don't have to explain." Her words were soft, laced with a quiet longing. "I just don't want to regret this."

"Then don't," he whispered.

His voice and the hand on her face and his warmth were almost too much, and she knew by now the look in her eyes spoke more than her words. He tilted his head to the side, and she allowed her right hand to slowly move from his chest to his neck.

It was a few minutes past three o'clock when he placed a light kiss on her temple, the contact intensifying as he moved his mouth downwards, along the line of her jaw. Her hand moved further up along his neck, his arm rewrapped around her waist, and he pulled her against him with more force. That was when she felt the soft texture of his lips on hers, moving deliberately against her mouth, slow and sweet at first and more purposeful when a quiet sigh escaped her lips and rose to caress his face. She moved again, hips pressed against his, one of her feet wrapped around his ankle; and her hand left his neck and travelled along the back of his head, where she ran her fingers through his hair in an unspoken invitation to deepen the kiss.

And like it had eight days ago in a place she couldn't remember the name of, her hand on his waist coaxed a groan from his throat. God, did he feel good, his body against hers, his hands and his lips and the heat radiating through his clothes as his tongue unhurriedly tasted her lips, her mouth.

Eight days ago the heat had been suffocating and tonight the interior of the car was cold, and yet for the first time that night, she was as warm as she'd been eight days ago, when her boss had stopped being her boss and they were in a motel that didn't have a name.

/ End of Eight Days


	14. Kenosha, WI

**# 14 – Kenosha, WI**

Rating: K+  
Spoilers: up to 5x21  
Genre: angst  
Timeline & Setting: Post At Rest. Jack's POV.

The fields in Kenosha were bare and desolate. A few lights were scattered across the horizon miles and miles away, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was the only view she'd had in her childhood. So far away from New York, so far away from the city... any city.

When his phone rang, he was staring into nothingness, into the dim glow of sunset and those distant, unreachable lights. It was neither warm nor cold here; the temperature was in between. Everything here was in between, stuck in some still form where you couldn't decide which one applied− hot or cold, close or distant, right or wrong. Just… stuck.

He turned from the dirty windowpane and bland, lukewarm coffee and lights that reminded him that somewhere out there was the rest of civilization. His hand automatically reached to unclip the phone from his belt, and he slowly brought it to his ear.

"Jack?"

Her voice stirred some deep, dormant emotions within him. He didn't try to locate the feeling, but wondered if there would come a time when her voice would stop having this effect on him. He wasn't sure he wanted it to.

"Jack," she repeated the name with more conviction. "Where are you?"

Distracted, he didn't answer immediately. "I'm at a… motel. It's cheaper than the cheapest one you can find in New York and it's…" A discernable smirk danced across his lips. "Empty." With a sudden sense of solitude he added, "I didn't know if you needed a room."

When an awkward silence filled the line, he cringed inwardly, unsure of what she would think of that sentence and ineffectually searching in his mind for an appropriate clarification. Unsurprisingly, nothing came.

"I… I'm staying at my mom's." Her whisper reached him through the line, quiet and uncertain. She added, almost as an afterthought, "If that's fine with you."

"Of course." He supposed it was better, safer, than any alternative. At the moment, though, he wasn't sure which emotion he was feeling. It wasn't relief.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so."

Her reply was quick, short, and simple. She made them simple when they weren't, which was why he knew she was lying. Her apprehension perceptible even on the phone, he hesitated, unsure talking about it was the right decision. "Sam," he said softly. "I wish you'd told me before."

"I wish you'd asked."

The truth, he knew, should have sufficed. He should have been grateful just for that. But the irrational, uncomplicated part of him wanted to believe that the revelation of her crime was irrelevant. That it didn't have to be known. That he could still depend on her, and she on him, the way they always had− that they would keep each other's secrets for an indefinite amount of time, and rely solely on that secrecy to go on with their lives.

"Are you sure you want to tell the Bureau?"

He could hear her breathing through the line, her silence resigned but shrouded with the same sadness he felt since this afternoon.

"You know it's the right thing to do."

Doing the right thing hurt. Their lives, their relationship were a testament to that.

"I just wish I could−"

"Don't, Jack… Don't. I don't want you do cover it up."

He spoke softly. "It wouldn't be the first time."

No… it wouldn't be the first time they crossed a line, breeched a law, or bent a rule for each other.

It wouldn't be the first time.

But it might be the last.

"Samantha," he whispered, wanting nothing more than to go and see her with all the things he needed to say.

He had to say that he didn't know what the place she grew up in looked like. Didn't know that there were magnets on the fridge in the kitchen and a shelf full of spices in the corner; didn't know there was a bell that chimed when you entered the house. He wanted to say that he'd never seen the drawing she'd made for her mom's birthday in fourth grade and that was still hung near the fireplace; that he didn't know that she could draw.

"Jack... I'm not asking you to forgive me."

"I already have."

He heard her sigh quietly and wondered what it meant that his forgiveness was more important to her than any question OPR would ask. He wondered if she could ever forgive herself and knew it mattered more to him than anything the Bureau would find to say.

"I have to go, Jack. My mom's waiting for me."

He resumed his staring through the dirty glass panels as the line grew silent, took in the green scenery and stillness and the quiet obscurity outside. The room was empty, the same emptiness that had rung inside him earlier when she'd told him. It was too quiet for a city to be out there, but if Samantha had been in the room with him, he might have been able to pretend they were still in New York. Still six years in the past.

But now she was…_ home. _Sleeping in the same house she slept in as a teenager until that night when she was sixteen and decided to leave. In the same dark room she'd slept in after she did something unthinkable.

He couldn't let her go back to that life.

He couldn't let her tell the Bureau.

He couldn't let her go.

/ End of Kenosha, WI


End file.
